


All It Takes

by summerofspock



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: First Time, Flirting, Frottage, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mutual Pining, Renaissance Era, Swordfighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:27:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27918943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock
Summary: When Hell assigns Crowley to duel a local lord, Aziraphale offers to teach him the finer points of swordplay.Things get a little sweaty.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 50
Kudos: 449
Collections: "O Lord Heal This Gift Exchange 2020" [OLHTS discord server]





	All It Takes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Solimette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solimette/gifts).



> Thank you to Lit for the beta and for holding my hand while I wrestled with this.
> 
> For Sol - you asked for swordfighting and yearning. Hope you enjoy <3

“M’gonna get discorporated and then—and then it’s ten years in the worm pits for me. Have you ever been to the worm pits? Course you haven’t. You’re still alive."

The tavern had seemed a reputable sort of place when Aziraphale had selected it for his evening respite. He hadn’t exactly expected drunkards moaning about worms. Then again, he would know that voice anywhere. Perhaps it was too loud and slurring, but that was most definitely Crowley. He turned from his very nice roasted mutton and sure enough, there was the demon, slouched over his tankard, moaning for the whole room to hear.

Silly as it was, just the sight of him still made Aziraphale’s heart hammer in his chest. He was a mess. He’d clearly been running his hands through his long hair, making what were natural curls wave and poof about. He’d shaved the awful billy goat facial hair he’d sported not five years prior that Aziraphale didn’t want to admit he had found slightly adorable. Only because it made Crowley’s grins look a little more rakish, just that hint of boyishness when he was being particularly clever. 

"I’m going to get sliced to ribbons,” Crowley groaned, long and loud and interrupting Aziraphale’s thoughts.

Another patron cleared their throat awkwardly and Aziraphale took it upon himself to get Crowley’s attention. He stood and edged his way through the growing crowd to get closer to the demon.

"Perhaps lower your voice,” Aziraphale hissed.

Crowley peered up at him through half-lidded eyes, barely covered by his thin, shaded lenses. They had slipped down his nose in his drunken stupor and he’d clearly stopped paying attention to them. The sight of his eyes always undid Aziraphale. It reminded him of those long nights together when they ended up in shared rooms talking of everything and nothing and how, on lucky nights, Crowley would get comfortable and slip off his glasses and grin at Aziraphale, uninhibited and happy. 

“Angel?”

Aziraphale’s pulse fluttered in his throat the way it always did at the epithet and he valiantly ignored it as he slipped into the chair opposite the demon. “You’re drawing unwanted attention.”

“Bah!” Crowley spat and then he downed his drink. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll be worm food in a week.”

Aziraphale snatched the cup from Crowley’s hand and said, “What on earth are you talking about?”

“A duel,” he moaned, dropping his head onto the table. “I have to duel. And I’m miserable with swords.”

“People don’t actually kill each other during duels, Crowley.”

It wasn’t the done thing. Duels were all about pomp. Crowley could hardly be in any real danger over a _duel_.

Crowley peeked up at him, one eye visible above his forearm. “People don’t, no. But Lord Montserrat does and he will discorporate me and then I will have to fill out the forms in triplicate and then BAM”—Crowley slapped his hands onto the table—“worm pits. Ten years, angel. Minimum.”

“Oh, come, come. It can’t be as bad as all that,” Aziraphale said. “Perhaps you could...not duel him?”

“That’s what I was sent here to do! Bugger it all to Heaven and back,” he grumbled. “Get me another drink!” 

The poor serving girl that had been passing by took the empty cup and scuttled off.

“So Hell sent you here to duel this lord,” Aziraphale asked. “With the expectation you would fail?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley slurred. “Probably. S’Hell.”

Another drink was pressed into Crowley’s hand, which Aziraphale promptly took. He certainly didn’t need another drink. Not in his state. Crowley glared at him.

“Perhaps I could help you,” Aziraphale offered.

“You. Help me. Like the...the range...the arran’ment?” Crowley managed after a few false starts. “I think they’d recognize you if you showed up. Too blond.”

Aziraphale took a sip of the ale and grimaced. It was _very_ poor quality. “Not quite. I was thinking I could train you. At least a bit. I am quite the swordsman.”

Crowley looked at him doubtfully.

“Excuse me,” Aziraphale said, puffing up his chest. “Why do you think I was stationed with a flaming sword— 

“That you gave away.”

“Oh, hush. I’m offering to help you. Perhaps you could be a touch less rude.”

Crowley sat up straight and frowned, wavering in his seat as he considered Aziraphale for a long moment. “You mean it?”

“Of course I do,” Aziraphale said. “I hardly want a new adversary stationed in England while you’re getting devoured by worms. If that’s even what they’ll do to you when you get discorporated.”

“If.”

“Pardon?”

“You mean _if_ I get discorporated.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said with a deferent nod of his head. “I suppose I do.”

* * *

They agreed to meet in a clearing thirty minutes south of the city. Aziraphale doodled Crowley a little map after forcing him to sober up and extracting a promise from him to meet him at eight the following morning.

“We can practice every morning until the duel,” he had said, ignoring Crowley’s groan.

Now, after hauling himself to the clearing in the foggy morning, Aziraphale was regretting his kind offer. Crowley wasn’t even there yet. The serpent had an awful habit of being late to everything.

It was when Aziraphale promised himself to only wait five more minutes that Crowley sauntered into the clearing and froze. His eyes were so wide they looked liable to fall from his head.

"What on Earth are you wearing?"

Aziraphale straightened up. "Clothes," he said primly as Crowley’s gaze raked over his body.

Perhaps there were fewer of them than normal yes, just a shirt and breeches for ease of movement, but Crowley needn't act so scandalized. The demon’s eyes flicked over his arms and settled on his throat. His skin tingled, raising the hair on his forearms. 

"Should I be wearing something else?” Crowley asked, drawing out the words between his teeth. “I’m starting to feel overdressed." 

Crowley had arrived kitted out in his typical black velvet. Cocking his head, Aziraphale picked up his blunted sword. "You may get a bit sweaty."

"Sweaty," Crowley echoed mockingly, undoing the ties at his wrists and sides so he could tug off his doublet. The loose shirt beneath was tucked into his trousers and gaped at the throat showing an almost obscene amount of chest hair.

Aziraphale looked away. He was _not_ supposed to be thinking about Crowley that way. Thinking about Crowley that way had only led to late nights feeling very guilty about the direction of his fantasies and wishing things could be different.

It would be simple if Aziraphale could lust (and love, dear Lord, that didn’t bear thinking about) quietly, bearing the burden of his feelings alone. That would be one thing, but he knew, they _both_ knew where their feelings tended. The truth of it was in those late nights, the lingering of a hand over a shared bottle, a look that said _your move_ , _angel_. Soft, gold eyes in the firelight. It was painful knowing Crowley felt exactly the same way. That was what made Aziraphale’s heart ache, what fueled his fantasies more than any lewd images because it wasn’t just lust, no matter what he told himself. He wanted Crowley. Crowley wanted him. But it would be idiotic to do anything about it.

Suffice it to say, Aziraphale should not be looking at Crowley’s chest. Or his hands. Or his legs. 

"Take your sword," he said stiffly, ignoring the way his stomach flipped and flopped.

"This is ridiculous," Crowley grumbled as he picked up the weapon.

"You're the one dueling a murderer."

"I don't exactly have a choice, angel."

Aziraphale ignored his huffing and puffing and asked, "When was the last time you used a sword?"

"A hundred years at least. I was bad at it then too," Crowley said, wiggling the blade back and forth and wagging his eyebrows.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Let’s start with the basics then.”

They ran through drills and Crowley wasn’t _terrible_ , but he didn’t have any great skill, and he certainly was weak on his right side.

So Aziraphale drilled him harder. At first, it was easy to forget his softer feelings for the demon. To get lost in the physicality of his purpose here. Teach Crowley to fight. Correct his posture. But as they moved, breathing hard, swords kissing and breaking apart, his blood began to pump and he became acutely aware of Crowley’s body so close to his own. He called for a break. He needed to breathe and get his _reaction_ under control.

"Better,” he said, turning away. It was probably best if he didn’t look at Crowley for the moment. Though he could picture the last moment easily. Tied back hair coming loose, kissing his jaw, sweat beginning to gleam on his collarbone as his chest heaved.

"My arms are going to fall off,” Crowley complained, sagging against a tree.

Perhaps if Aziraphale focused on how irritating Crowley was, this wouldn’t be an issue.

(A lie. Now Aziraphale wanted to bundle him up and take him to the nearest inn, run him a bath and massage his sore muscles.)

"You’re a demon," Aziraphale said, swiping the gathering sweat from his brow with his sleeve. "You’ll manage."

Crowley made some mocking noises that Aziraphale chose not to dignify with a response. Everything was fine and under control, and they had work to do. It was time to get back to it and stop thinking about kissing Crowley on the mouth.

"Alright, again," Aziraphale said, falling back and raising his sword.

Crowley moaned in complaint but readied his blade and so it went. Aziraphale found one of Crowley’s worst habits was how easily he lost focus.

"Pay attention or you'll lose a limb," Aziraphale said for what felt like the fourth time, smacking the flat of his sword against Crowley's bicep and earning himself a yelp. 

It might be easy at this point to assume Crowley's distraction was owed to his nature or even perhaps his serpentine eyesight, but it is now pertinent to explain exactly what occurred to the demon Crowley upon stepping into the clearing.

See, Crowley had received very good news that morning. The worm pits were off the table. Lord Montserrat had died the night before of an apoplexy during supper, rendering Crowley's assignment and thus the threat of worms, null and void. He was quite chuffed, really. No discorporation. No paperwork. No worms.

He was going to tell Aziraphale the minute he walked into the clearing. The news was poised on the tip of his tongue, another anecdote for them to laugh at in twenty years' time.

But Aziraphale stood in the center of the clearing in nothing but his breeches and a loose fitting shirt. The sleeves were rolled up to the elbows and he was holding up a sword to the light, face firm in thought. He turned at Crowley's approach and grinned, and he looked so beautiful that the breath left Crowley’s lungs and words left Crowley’s mouth.

There was no force on earth that would have Crowley give up this opportunity to spend a day half clothed with Aziraphale who seemed, against all odds, willing to touch him in ways he never would otherwise.

Crowley was often an idiot, but he knew the unspoken rules between them: No intimate touches unless we are drunk and even then, they can’t last longer than five seconds. Plausible deniability at all times. 

So this, Aziraphale’s hands on his arms, belly pressed against his back, showing him how to hold a sword, correcting his posture, correcting his grip, _whatever he was doing_ , it was like a dream.

"Really, Crowley," Aziraphale said, absurdly close as he adjusted Crowley’s arm again. Apparently, he was making it too easy for his opponent to knock his sword away. "You'd think you were doing this on purpose."

"Arm’s tired. Sorry," Crowley croaked. He wasn’t making the mistake on purpose. He simply couldn’t focus because the entirety of Aziraphale’s front had been pressed against his back. Aziraphale cupped his bicep in his firm grip, a show of support before he stepped away.

“You’re doing wonderfully, Crowley. Just focus, please.”

Crowley swallowed around his tongue. He was going to file away all these touches into the secret vault in the back of his mind that he only opened on special occasions. “Maybe we...wrap up for the day. Come back tomorrow. I’m not dueling the bastard for four more days.”

And then tomorrow Crowley would tell him the truth about Lord Montserrat’s death and they would be done with this.

Aziraphale stepped back. “One more round, my dear. To show everything you’ve learned.”

Most of the time, Crowley tried to convince himself that he wasn’t in love with Aziraphale. It was a losing battle. The bastard was just so...he was always there and soft and perfect, but also sort of mean, but not to Crowley unless Crowley deserved it. See? Perfect. And Crowley _knew_ Aziraphale felt the same way. The unspoken thing between them was heavy in their dinner dates, and theater dates, and drinking dates. About two centuries ago, Crowley had tried to hold Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale had promptly yanked his hand away and then avoided him for twenty-five years.

Since then Crowley had adjusted his perspective on their relationship to something along the lines of _enjoying the ride_.

The final round of blows was not much better than their practice rounds. Crowley might have been better at defending his right side but he was tired and sloppy, so when their blows had carried them to the edge of the clearing, and Crowley knocked the sword from Aziraphale’s hand, it was a surprise to both of them. Aziraphale stumbled, giving Crowley the advantage until he had the angel backed against a tree.

Aziraphale’s chest heaved against his. They were pressed so close together that Crowley could feel each inhalation, the way it pushed Aziraphale’s belly into his own ribs. He wasn't much taller than the angel, but like this, he suddenly felt every inch. 

Crowley forcefully reminded himself that he was supposed to be enjoying the ride, because Aziraphale was looking at his mouth and that _does not mean I’m supposed to kiss him. No. Don’t kiss him. Don’t do it._

"Excellent work," Aziraphale said breathlessly before his tongue darted out to lick his lips. 

Crowley’s sword had fallen to the ground, but he didn't remember dropping it. His hand had come to rest flat on the slight swell of Aziraphale’s chest, his forefinger dipping just inside the open collar. He could feel the tickle of his chest hair under the pad of his finger, damp from exertion. Aziraphale was still staring at his mouth.

Years later they would argue about who kissed who, but Crowley knew. He was miles away from making the first move. He was stone still. His heart was beating a mad rhythm in his throat and Aziraphale _kissed him_. And if Crowley thought touching knees or holding hands made his heart race, he had never considered this possibility. He whimpered at the first touch of Aziraphale’s mouth, soft and yielding and everything he had wanted, and, in that moment, it was as if a dam broke.

Crowley had not realized exactly _how much_ he had been holding back until Aziraphale’s mouth was on his, a small sound escaping the angel’s chest. A sound like the ones reserved for delicious sweets. Crowley wanted Aziraphale _desperately_ , madly. So badly his body _ached_. It was as if he had stored millennia of yearning in some great room inside him and Aziraphale had opened the door and now every inch of his body was filled with the need he had stuffed away, because Aziraphale had not been ready and, oh fuck, they were properly making out against the tree while Crowley was busy being introspective.

At some point, Aziraphale had fisted his hands in Crowley’s shirt and yanked him closer until their legs slotted together. The angel’s tongue was in his mouth, pressing against his and turning Crowley’s stomach to liquid and fire. He kept making those sounds and clutching his soft hands tight against Crowley's chest. Crowley let his own hands slide to the angel’s hips, tugging his shirt from his breeches so he could get his hands on him. Nothing between them. Skin to skin.

Crowley could feel the delicious texture of the hair on Aziraphale's belly. He wanted to see it and kiss it and feel it under his tongue, but he wasn't sure how far this would go. Snogging against a tree was good. No complaints, but he wanted to get on his knees for his angel. He had for a long time. He wasn’t sure if Aziraphale would go for that though.

He slid his hands up until he cupped Aziraphale's chest. That was good too, warm, the perfect size to fill his palms, just a little soft. He flicked his thumbs over his nipples and enjoyed Aziraphale’s moan against his mouth. Responsive little angel.

It was Aziraphale that broke the kiss, breathing hard, lips red and spit-slick. He didn’t speak as he rolled his hips forward, eyes locked on Crowley’s as if to say, _I know what I’m doing, I want this_.

Crowley could _feel him_ , hard through the fabric of his trousers rubbing against his own cock and it was impossible to think. All he could do was kiss Aziraphale again, grasp his soft hips and grind against him. He had no idea how long that lasted, the slow roll of pleasure not nearly enough to get him off, but so delicious that he didn’t care. It was when Aziraphale reached between them to unfasten his trousers that he finally resurfaced to realize Aziraphale was about to _touch him._

It seemed unbelievable that Aziraphale would be putting his hands on him after hours swordfighting in the forest. Was that all it would take? Crowley should have asked for this sooner. 

Deft fingers undid the laces of his breeches, brushing over his length and making him keen before dipping inside and drawing him out into the cool, damp air. He looked down and his cock was in Aziraphale’s hand. His head was tingling and he felt too big for his body. This wasn’t happening. _This is happening._ Aziraphale wrapped his hand around him, thumbing the head gently. Pleasure rolled through him. 

Crowley’s hips jerked unbidden and he fumbled between them. Their hands knocked together as he tried to open Aziraphale’s breeches too. There was no way he was letting Aziraphale have all the fun. 

It took ages but he finally managed to open Aziraphale’s trousers and Crowley maybe hadn’t seen very many cocks in his life but Aziraphale’s was the prettiest, fat and leaking. It fit perfectly in Crowley’s palm, just the head peeking over his fist as he began to move his hand.

Aziraphale gasped his name, a hitching sound, before releasing his length. “Hold on. Let me…”

He grasped Crowley’s hips and purposefully pushed their bodies closer until their cocks slid together between their stomachs. Aziraphale still clutched at his hip with one hand and with the other formed a circle for them to thrust into. Feeling the hot slide of Aziraphale against his length as they fucked his fist was enough to bring him to the edge. It was the angel. Long admired. _Loved._

"Oh, darling," Aziraphale gasped, hips jumping as his fingers dug into Crowley’s side. _Darling._

Aziraphale spilled first, his spend slicking his hand which he wrapped tight around Crowley to bring him off. He was so close from watching that when Aziraphale kissed him and twisted his wrist just right, his own orgasm hit him without warning. The sound groaned into Aziraphale’s mouth and kissed away.

Aziraphale gasped as his head fell back against the trunk of the tree. “I never thought our first time would be quite so...mossy.”

Crowley tucked his nose into Aziraphale’s neck to hide his grin. First time. Implying a next time. And maybe a time after that. “Next time I’ll get you a big soft bed, angel. Rose petals. Anything you want.”

Aziraphale sighed, a perfect mixture of put-upon and satisfied. “You foul tempter.”

It would be an insult if it didn’t sound quite so flirtatious. Crowley snapped his fingers to pull them both together and drawled, “You like it.”

“Yes, well, that’s...not the point,” Aziraphale huffed as they separated and he tugged his shirt to rights, still red in the face and looking more fetching for it. 

“Oh, I think it is,” Crowley needled, trailing after him when Aziraphale moved away. “Snogging against a tree. Hand jobs. _Liking each other_. There’s a point in there somewhere. Don’t you think?”

Aziraphale’s blush was nearly at his hairline. “It’s not allowed,” he protested meekly.

“We do loads of things that aren’t allowed,” Crowley said. Which was true, but it felt awfully like a confession. A risk.

He watched Aziraphale’s throat work as he swallowed. His eyes flicked back to Crowley. “I suppose...I suppose that’s true.”

The sheer willpower it took not to punch the air was testament to Crowley’s strength of character. He casually took a step forward and knocked their shoulders together. Casually. 

“So, tomorrow? Same time for practice?” Crowley asked, playfully grasping at Aziraphale’s hips to get his point across. 

“ _Actual_ practice?” Aziraphale countered, but he didn’t push Crowley’s hands away.

Crowley suddenly remembered the news he’d conveniently forgotten to share and grimaced. “Uh, right. Yeah. About that…”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said warningly, recognizing his tone.

“I may no longer _actually_ need to duel anyone. Lord Monserrat died...yesterday,” Crowley said sheepishly.

“What?” Aziraphale snapped, hands going to his hips. “Then what on earth did I just do for the last three hours?”

Crowley shrugged and offered, “Foreplay?”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] All It Takes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28194879) by [Literarion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion)




End file.
